The Devil's Advocate
by Raven Catz
Summary: When a young woman disappears, she discovers the true meaning of becoming The Devil's Advocate. Post TDK.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note: Don't own, never will, just dreaming for now. _**

**_P.S. Adria is pronounced "ADD-ree-ah"_**

The sky was a dismal grey in Gotham City… Not that this was unusual for Gotham. But today was exceptional. The clouds hung like a pall over the skyscrapers, slowly creeping along in a march that hinted at things to come. Things were changing, there was fear in the air.

Packing away her sleek Canon camera, Adria Kane heaved a sigh. The day had been a solemn one for the whole city. Harvey Dent's memorial service had taken place under a threatening veil of thunderclouds, passing by overhead. And as a contributing photographer to _The Gotham Sun_, one of the smaller, regional rags, she was sent to cover every angle. Though the ceremony had been a hopeful one, speaking of the day when Dent's dreams would be realized, and Gotham would be a shining city once again, Adria's photographs captured nothing but fear and apprehension. The Joker might be locked away forever in Arkham Asylum, but the Batman, Gotham's other up-and-coming cop killer, was still out there somewhere.

Adria hailed a cab back to the _Sun's_ offices. She thought about the full slate of stories she needed to compile when she got back. She needed to find the archival stock photographs to accompany an editorial about the Batman… some nut who insisted on his innocence… Not that Adria necessarily believed the Batman was a cop killer. As someone who had not only studied, but lived the news for nearly five years now, she knew that killing police officers just didn't fit his profile. But that judgement wasn't for her to say. Her job was to translate the news to a visual, not give her opinion on it. Then there was the special section on Gotham's Fashion Week… She would need to remember to charge her camera batteries, as she would be spending the next several days tent-hopping and checking out the newest couture fads. Yes, even for a paper as tiny as _The Gotham Sun_, there was always much to do.

Passing through the shadows of various immense high-rises, Adria began to doze. All the newspapers had been running full-tilt for ages, as every time someone blinked, something newsworthy was happening. Unfortunately, it was usually a murder, an arson, a bank robbery, but sometimes something good caught everyone by surprise. Adria had been on the scene the night the SWAT teams hauled the Joker off to Arkham. She hadn't got there in time for any winning shots, but she still felt the chill in the air as she watched the sirens wailing into the distance. Hopefully, with one major criminal behind bars, she could finally catch up on her mountains of work.

As her cab pulled up to the curb at the offices of _The Gotham Sun_, Adria fished through her purse for the fare. The cabbie tipped his hat grimly as she paid him, and she stepped onto the dismal grey sidewalk, strewn with the remnants of the morning's news. It had begun to drizzle. Days like today made her wonder inwardly why she had left sunny Texas in the first place. Adria's father was an oil baron in the southwest, but she had forsaken the life of posh dinner parties and political fundraisers to attend college in the east. She soon found herself accepting internships in and around Gotham City, and, against her better judgement, had fallen in love with the place. Thanks to her connections, she managed to secure a decent apartment on the better side of town, if "decent" meant larger than a closet, and "good side of town" meant less than one murder or mugging a week. But she refused to give in to the allure of Daddy's Money, and preferred to make her own way.

Adria's office, if you could call it that, was situated on the ninth floor. It consisted of a cramped cubicle with photographs taped, tacked, or strewn over every available surface. Her computer screen was bordered with "bat-sightings," her walls were plastered with political rallies and gala-parties, and her inbox was overflowing with memos reminding her to do the ten thousand things she still needed to do, before she could go home for the night. And there was a single pink Post-It note from her partner that said, in scrawling script "…And don't forget to put the cover sheet on your TPS reports!" Adria grinned. At least someone still had a sense of humor in this town.

"Well, well, well. Look who's back!" Adria looked up. Her partner, Stephen Nolan was standing in the entrance to her tiny workspace, leaning precariously against the rickety wall and grinning gleefully. "I thought I'd lost you down there."

"No, Stephen. But you always seem to forget that the best angle isn't always the one you're twisting with your words." Adria cracked a smile as well. Stephen adopted a look of mock surprise and hurt.

"Ouch. Pretty lady, dangerous attitude." He stood straight, brushing some imaginary dust from his neatly pressed pants. "Listen, I know you have a lot of work to do, but I'm gonna need those pictures as soon as possible, to take down to the editor."

"I'll have them in the morning." Adria sighed, gesturing to the sea of papers already on her desk. "I'll upload them and email them to you as soon as I'm done with my abstract for Fashion Week."

"Good deal." Stephen's smile had returned. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't stay up too late." And with that he was gone. Adria turned to her work. At this rate, it was going to be a long night.

As the weak coppery sunlight sank lower and lower down the gleaming, glassy skyscrapers, Adria pressed on. She didn't pause to look up as her coworkers slowly filed out for the day, passing around her in a steady stream. She was used to working later than most. As one of only three photographers for the _Sun_, she was charged with photographing everything from wrecked cars to the Mayor's wedding, to the cat stuck up a tree in the city park. But the work was rewarding, even if it did prove disturbing on some days.

The natural light was rapidly bleeding out of the ninth floor windows, and Adria switched on her desk lamp. In the glow of her computer screen, she caught the briefest glimpse of someone passing by. That should be the last of them, she figured, unless she had miscounted. The janitors might come by tonight, keep her company. With a heaving sigh, the whole building began to fall silent, and the big printing presses downstairs ground to a halt for the night. At least Adria was nearly done with her work. Perhaps another hour of editing her shots for the day, tweaking the exposure, cutting out the blurry ones, photoshopping out the occasional sunbeam as it broke through the clouds, and shone on a pane of glass. Another set of footsteps passed by her cubicle. These ones seemed to pause momentarily, but the owner of them said nothing, and eventually passed by. Adria secretly hoped it was not her boss, stopping to admonish her for working so late into the evening, but when the footsteps passed on, she sighed with relief. Though she knew of the dangers posed by riding the Gotham subway late at night, Adria was more than willing to take that risk, if it meant finishing her work on time. After all, with the Joker, as well as half the city's crime-bosses behind bars, it would only be a petty, and potentially stupid thief that would try to attack someone on the subway today. And Adria was confident in her aim with a mace can. And perhaps in a misguided way, she still felt safer knowing the Batman was on the loose somewhere. After all, though everyone else was saying he killed those cops, Adria knew that he had also had a hand in both the Joker and the Mob's downfall. And she, therefore, refused to believe he could be that bad. At length, with a yawn and a stretch, Adria switched off her desk lamp and fished her purse and camera bag from under the large, U-shaped desk. As she swung her chair around to make sure she had missed nothing for tomorrow on the back side of her desk, she stopped suddenly. Lying there, in the dim light, obvious among the stacks of black and white photographs, memos, and clippings, was a single, red-backed playing card. Her hair began to stand on end, as she reached for it and flipped it over.

It was a Joker.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Thank you for the positive response so far. Comments are encouraged, and I hope you enjoy part 2_**

**_I still don't own, I never will, and I'm still only borrowing for the time being._**

This had to be a prank. Stephen must have left the card as a joke. But somehow, this didn't seem like the kind of joke Stephen would play. He usually exhibited some sense of taste when kidding around, and, in light of recent events, this was plain cruel. Adria hesitated for a moment, looking at it. She contemplated stuffing it in her purse, taking it to the police, but the mere sight of it left her unsettled. It felt like a death note, but she stuffed it away in her desk drawer, out of sight, out of mind. Besides, she knew better. It had to be a joke, she had seen the Gotham police take him away. Well… She had seen the police take 'someone' away.

Glancing briefly out of her cubicle, surveying the scene, she saw nothing unusual. The night janitor was sweeping up paper clippings in a corner, and his partner was making the rounds to all the cubicles, emptying trash bins. She called out a good night, and made her way to the elevator. She thought briefly of asking the old janitor if he had seen anything out of the ordinary on his rounds that night, but changed her mind. Being a janitor in Gotham City meant you usually saw unusual things, being privy to everyone's 'dirty laundry' as it were, and besides, the old man was half-blind. The elevator doors slid closed before her with a thud that made her jump.

At the bottom, as she bid the night-guards farewell, she admonished herself for being afraid. Like a silly little girl. The citizens of this city had no reason to be afraid. One man's dream was making sure of that. One great man had died inspiring people to believe it, and it would be a slap in the face to Gotham's dearly departed DA to fear shadows and practical jokes. Still, Adria rethought her plan to board the subway, and hailed a cab instead. It would be far more expensive, but at least she knew she would only be meeting one person on the journey home.

Bronze hair gleaming in the glow of a streetlight, Adria waited. She peered at her reflection in a puddle at the curb. She looked peaky. Everyone she met looked peaky nowadays, with so much happening all at once. She was a pretty girl, not unusually so, at least she didn't think so, with grey blue eyes and bronze hair that fell in soft ringlets past her shoulders. There were much prettier girls in Gotham City, and she would be spending the next few days surrounded by them. So much for her self-image. Well, at least it was a thought that smacked of normalcy, not the fright she had just gotten. Perhaps things really were looking up for Gotham City. Perhaps the dark night had truly come, and was passing into the dawn now. She supposed there would always be threatening copycats and pranksters, after all. Adria hailed herself a cab, and determined she would think no more of fear until she had a good, solid reason to.

The next morning, Adria had donned her crispest, most fashion-forward suit, with a short, pinstriped vest, and low, slingback pumps. She pocketed her spare camera batteries, and made sure she had an extra pencil tucked in her camera bag. It was finally the start of Gotham's Fashion Week, and who better than a woman and a photographer to get the scoop on the newest designs? At least she would be out of the office for most of the next few days, though she was trading her jovial partner for a gaggle of Amazonian beauties… Such was the trade off, getting out of her dismal little cage for a week. But Adria loved Fashion Week. She loved to watch those beauties strut down the runway, wishing she could do the same. But at a modest 5'4, she wouldn't even make the cut in heels. It didn't stop her from dreaming, and her private portfolio was full of shots where she had acted as photographer, model, and fashion designer. At least she could live her dreams in private.

"Gotham's biggest designers, and others from around the world had gathered in the heart of downtown to put on a gaudy celebration, in defiance of evil, and in memory of a great hero." Adria mouthed to herself, penning the words into a notebook. Though her editors would probably render her writing unrecognizable later, at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she would be allowed to write for herself, just once. She loved partnering with Stephen, but the two of them often had opposing views on things. She longed for the truth that only a lens could tell, while Stephen opted for a more… sensationalist perspective. All the same, as she stepped into the large, white tent, she felt again the all too familiar air of apprehension. If this week's festivities went off without a hitch, it would be the first time in years that criminals (or at least hooligans) had not marred a big event.

She watched as the Emcee took the stage, announcing the designers to an all-star crowd. She mingled with the likes of Bruce Wayne, got up close and personal with the designers, and snapped picture after picture of beautiful models walking the long catwalk. By the middle of the afternoon, she was exhausted. Shifting her camera bag for the ten-thousanth time, she made her way out of the big white tent, a hint of a smile playing on her weary face. One day down, four to go, and so far, no trouble. At the offices of _The Gotham Sun_, she took to her desk to organize her day's work, the faster she could get home. Still, it was after sundown again when she finally left. No trouble or practical jokes this night, though she noticed that the old night janitor did not have his assistant with him tonight. Poor old man, she thought sympathetically. His boy must have called in sick tonight. She boarded the elevator once again, and as the door slid closed, Adria's heart nearly stopped. Taped to the elevator doors, directly at her eye level, was a photograph. It was one from her private portfolio, a tasteful semi-nude she had done in the style of Cindy Sherman. But no one had access to those photos but her. A shiver ran down her spine. Someone was watching her. She was suddenly unwilling to go home, but at a loss for what else to do. Better to go home than anywhere else. Who could she stay with? Stephen would take her, but she would have to go home in the morning anyway, likely before sunup, to prepare for the second day of Fashion Week. So, with a lump like lead in her stomach, she hailed a cab again, and made for home.

It was a relief when she checked her apartment to find it sound, but it was still strange that someone had found access to her portfolio. She had, on occasion, brought bad prints to the office to throw out, as all garbage was incinerated on site, but why anyone in the office would be rooting through her garbage was something she couldn't guess at. Either way, it wasn't long before Adria was secure behind locked doors, and fast asleep.

The next day felt like Groundhog day to Adria. Get up, meet at the white tent, whore her services, both literary and photographically, until dinner time, then trudge back to the office, cursing shoes that barely fit, and work 'til sundown compiling her material. But she was wary now. Something was amiss. The day had, indeed, gone like clockwork, so perhaps that was what threw her off. Gotham had not had two straight days of peace since before the Joker had appeared, and though his reign of terror had been comparably brief, it was still foreign to feel complacent and safe.

Adria watched as her coworkers filed out, one by one, without her, and wondered briefly why it was that she was always the last one out. She certainly wasn't the hardest worker at the _Sun_, so she chalked it up to being the youngest. She was a mere 24, and had worked for the _Sun_ for five years now, ever since she first arrived as a bright-eyed intern. Not so bright eyed now, nor so bushy-tailed, but at least she was still far from the run-down, dull eyed compatriots she saw all over the city. Still, even after five years, she was the youngest photographer in the fleet, and supposed she still had dues to pay before another young-blood could come in and steal her thunder. So she worked on until darkness had fallen over the city yet again, and the night janitor and his young assistant came clanking around, emptying trash bins. As Adria was saving the last of her photographs and shutting down her computer, she heard the old janitor mumble that he had forgotten something downstairs, and shuffled off toward the elevator. Adria stood up, she could see the younger of the pair bobbing up and down among the cubicles, upending the trash bins for the night. She was suddenly a little uncomfortable, wondering if he had found the picture of her. Still, she shouldered her bags and stepped out of her cubicle, making for the elevator.

"Good night." She said to the man as she passed. He looked somewhat taller than she had remembered.

"Good night." He replied, noncommittally. She peered into the cubicle after him.

"I don't think I've ever gotten to speak with just you before…" She said

"Nope…"

"Well, it was nice meeting you." She said, a little nervously. His back had been turned to her the whole time, as he lazily dumped out the trash bin. She held out her hand to shake, but when he turned around, she got only the briefest glimpse of crooked grin and bared, yellowed teeth before the trash can came into solid contact with her skull, and she collapsed, lifeless, to the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's Note: Many thanks to those who have read and reviewed/favorited/etc. I'm sure you've been waiting for this moment and it's finally here..._**

When Adria awoke, she found herself lying, as if she were a ragdoll that had been thrown, in a strewn pile of playing cards. All Jokers. There was a blinding light coming from somewhere, and she had awoken to a sudden bright flash. Her head hurt to move, so she simply stayed where she was, and opened her bleary eyes with a groan.

"Uh-smile… _sweethear-t"_ A voice intoned from somewhere in the darkness, and the light flashed again. A gleeful giggle emanated from the blackness. Adria's heart felt like a stone in her chest, banging to counterpoint the throbbing in her skull. At length, she pushed herself up, slowly, and sat, shoulders sagging and head spinning. The light flashed again. It finally dawned on Adria that the light was her camera flash. And the photographer..?

The camera came swinging into the bright, steady light around her, and Adria barely had time to grab for it before it came crashing down at her. A chuckle, this time not so amused, followed it from the curtain of darkness beyond.

"Ge-t _up."_ The voice growled. Adria moaned and shifted, attempting to find an angle at which to rise that wouldn't send all the blood draining from her skull.

"_I said GET UP!" _The voice was icy now, no trace of it's mirth left. A hand shot out of the darkness and yanked her to her feet. Adria swooned. She was suddenly pulled in to the body that the hand belonged to, and a second hand began stroking her head with a heavy, awkward motion, like a child that had not yet developed the necessary motor skills.

"Shush, shush, shhh…" The voice said, suddenly soothing, though Adria could still feel a sinister air behind it. "Everything's alright. Everything will be fiiine… We're going to work up a nice. Little. Deal. And everyone will be happy." The voice continued, dark mirth returning.

"And by _everyone,_ I mean _Me._" And Adria felt herself being dragged off into the blackness.

Her head spun as she was dragged through the darkness on what seemed like an endless journey. Deprived of sight, her brain felt as if she were on a roller-coaster, looping and floating through the air, then falling suddenly back into herself and stumbling against the hard floor. The hand that had seized her was no longer pushing her along, but had grown weary of shoving her ahead, and let her lag. It was now dragging her along from behind, painfully crushing into her wrist. Now and again it would give a little twist or a yank, causing her to yelp, until finally, the figure before her came to a halt, pulling her again frighteningly close.

"End of the line, Angelface." The voice growled. A second floodlight snapped on from somewhere above, and she was shoved into it. Her eyes burned in the light, and she strained to find the source of the voice. "Have a sea-t." It said, suddenly behind her. A cold, minimalist chair came sliding out of the darkness as Adria spun around, disoriented. It banged rather painfully into her knee, and she collapsed into it with a moan.

"Now. I am. Sorry… about that." The voice said, with an affected guilt. "Can't be damaging the goods now, can we?"

"W-what's going on?" Adria asked, her voice suddenly coming to her. The fog in her head was lifting, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with the barrage of events, emotions washing over her.

"Shush… shhh…" The voice crooned, and the hands began again their methodical heavy stroking of her hair. Adria winced as one of them landed on the side of her head where she had been struck. "I'm feeling _benevolen-t_, and you're in luck."

The hands pulled away from her head, and she heard footsteps, like the stalking footfalls of a large animal, circling her.

"You've just found yourself a _secret admirer_." It was a scuffed black shoe that first broke through the curtain of darkness, and Adria followed it incredulously up a long, purple trouser-leg, and her heart stopped. It was _him_. As the realization dawned, she flinched, stared pointedly at the floor.

"What'sa matter, Babydoll? …Is it the scars?" He moved swiftly, like a pouncing cat, snatched her face up in a crushing grip, and pulled her head back in his direction. A smile flitted across his already grinning face. "You wanna know how I got these scars?" He hunched down, almost painfully close, and Adria could feel his breath on her skin. She shivered, tried to look away, but he just squeezed her jaw harder, holding her still. His dark eyes glinted.

"Well-uh…" he paused, pink tongue passing over crimson lips. "You see… I was a ba-d ki-d. A real _nasty_ little boy. And when I was about… sixteen or so… I thought it would be a nifty idea to find out what really happened when a man could get a woman… _alone_." His eyes flashed, and Adria could see a ravenous hunger erupting deep within them.

"So… I picked my poison, a real sweet little tart, right?" He nodded her head yes. "and made my move… But it turns out that pretty girl-s don't seem to like dirty little boy-s just… waltzing into their homes at three in the morning. So I followed her to the kitchen, like. _Pleading_ my case… and she grabs this here _vegetable peeler_. And I think to myself, 'kinky… but what can you do with a vegetable peeler?' So I went for her skirt, hoping for the best… And she went for my face, instead. Understand, Sugarlips?" Again, he nodded her head yes.

"Well, let me tell you, I was… impressed. So I paid her for her services. You wanna know how I pay my girls when they show just a little bit too much enthusiasm?" He paused, grinning malevolently.

"Well..?" Adria finally mumbled through his crushing grip.

"On second thought, might as well leave it as a surprise." And he released his grip on her face, giggling uproariously.

"Why me?" Adria asked, at length. The Joker ceased giggling, ceased the strange little dance of mirth he had been dancing, and glared at her, eyes burning. He strode over, threw an arm around her shoulders and flopped unceremoniously into her lap.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, Sweet-cheeks, I've been getting _terribly_ tired of blind hookers!" He let his free hand resume the heavy stroking of her hair, and when she turned away from him in disgust, he dragged his fingers painfully down her exposed neck, rested them just above her chest for a moment, then snatched her by the chin and forced her to face him again. "Especially since I have to blind them myself."

He stood abruptly and yanked her to her feet behind him, where he proceeded to throw his arm about her shoulders once again, and lead her around the restrictive little circle of light. The shadows playing across his face as they turned were terrifying, and made him look stranger and more malformed than he already was.

"See, Dumpling, it gets tiring, keeping company with beings that can't _see_ you, no matter how gratifying it was at first. Things get _boring_. They grope around too much. And, to be quite honest, I realized quickly why I had to blind them in the first place. Scars aren't too much of a turn on. Especially when they're on your _face_." He shoved her away from him, back toward the stiff little chair. He continued to circle, hunched, not with laziness or apathy, but with an energy reminiscent of a panther ready to pounce. Adria backed into the chair and collapsed in it, watching him move. The fog her head had possessed not long ago had been chilled away, and her mind was clear and ringing with terror.

"So, really, you're getting a nice. Little. Deal." He growled, stopping behind her and sinking very close. She could see his face creep up beside her and leapt away.

"I don't really see the benefits…" She murmured, wide eyed.

"Well, Baby-cakes," his tongue once again flitted across his lips, "I need you right now. See, and I'm not one of them, hmm, uh, _weirdos_, that likes dead bodies, so I also need you _alive_. Are you following me? Say yes." He grabbed for her head, but she dodged and nodded herself.

"Good girl, and such a fast learner!" He suppressed a giggle. "So, as long as you do _exac-t-ly_ as I say, and stay such a good, _obedien-t_ little girl… I won't have to hurt you too badly. Unfortunately, that means you'll have to stay here." He frowned, a strange combination of frown and grin, before seizing her once again, and shoving her back into the little chair.

"If you're a good little girl, and promise not to wander around too much in the dark, I'll even let you make yourself comfortable." He began to back away into the darkness.

"But remember…" He said, his face terrifying in half-shadow, "There are _monsters_ in the dark." And with a grin and a cocked eyebrow, he dissolved into the black.


	4. Chapter 4

Adria was left to her own devices, in a room full of darkness. She knew there was a door somewhere, as they had to come in from somewhere. She also knew that there was at least one light in the room, but no windows. She knew it was likely best to heed her captor's warnings, but she couldn't just sit in the middle of a cold, concrete floor, hunched in a little chair for the rest of her existence. She decided to be brave, and explore her immediate surroundings. Her first thought was her camera. She had slung it around her neck when the Joker had thrown it back at her, and she now lifted it to her eye, and tried to snap a picture. It might be useful evidence. But her camera replied with a little icon that meant the memory card had been removed.

He had taken it out after he took the pictures of her. Clever devil.

So Adria fumbled with the flash for a moment, and managed to set the flash to its manual setting. She stumbled through the darkness, flashing the room at intervals until she had a decent bearing on where she was.

There was no discernable door, so it had been hidden somewhere. There was a questionable looking bed in one corner, and a great expanse of dark, concrete floor. Adria guessed she was in a basement, or a warehouse of some sort. At length, she groped her way along one wall, until she found the bed. At least she would be more comfortable there. The pain in her head had returned somewhat, now that she wasn't being barraged by new information. She lay on her side and listened to the silence for awhile. And then she heard the door. She sat up, terrified. Was he back for her? What was he going to do with her? Visions of him, grinning maniacally, swam before her eyes. But then she heard the footsteps, and they weren't the brisk clicking of the Joker's shoes, but a small, shuffling sound. After a while, a tiny old woman shuffled into the light, groped around for a moment, and found the chair. She lay something on it, though Adria was too far away to see what. The old woman was also carrying something more. The young woman's heart ached to see her shuffle back into the darkness. What did a madman need an old woman for? But the shuffling footfalls grew closer, and a frail little voice was soon right beside Adria.

"Dinner, dearie?" The old woman croaked. She thrust the other something at Adria, and though the blackness was nearly complete, she could make out the outline of a tray.

"Thank you…" She replied numbly.

"Of course, love. But I shan't keep the master waiting for his dinner. Someone has to take care of that troublesome man…"

"If you say so." Adria mumbled.

"You'd best watch your tongue." The old woman warned. "That boy has quite a temper. And I may be blind as a… as a bat, you might say…" Her tone had turned surprisingly sinister.

"…But I hear just fine." And the old woman giggled cheerfully, and shuffled away. When she had neared the door, Adria could hear the old woman talking to herself… The poor woman was crazy, just another one of the Joker's minions. But thanks to the old woman's senility, Adria did have a decent idea of where in the room the door was. Just then, the light over the chair guttered, plunging the entire room into darkness, and a bright beam directly over the bed flashed to life. Adria's eyes dazzled in the light, and she squinted, groping for the tray that the old woman had left.

Food was the last thing on her mind, however, and she set everything aside, picking up the tray, and moving into the darkness groping for the place where the old woman had exited. She didn't get far along the wall when she felt something peculiar. Something was in her way. With a flutter of excitement inside, she lifted the tray defensively, and groped for a door handle… and found a hand instead.

"Miss me already, Sweetheart?"

With a yelp, Adria swung the tray as hard as she could, but he had already caught it, and knocked it aside with a clatter. She found herself being wrestled to the ground, and he deftly kicked her feet out from beneath her, sending her crashing. He swiftly clambered on top of her, pinning her hands behind her head.

"Well, Angel, if you wanted me this badly, you should have said something before." He quipped, taking a moment to savor the compromising position he had put her in. He dipped towards her, taking a moment to bury his face in the space between her neck and shoulder, and inhale deeply. She squirmed and yelped. A gloved hand was quickly placed over her mouth, and before she could swing her free hand to claw at him, he had pinned both wrists to the floor with one arm. For being such a lank, thin man, he was stronger than he looked.

"Shush shush shush…" he rumbled. "No need to let everyone in on our little date…"

Adria responded with some incoherent mumbling from beyond his hand, but he responded by squeezing her cheeks painfully and she fell silent.

"Good girl." He hissed.

He let her fight and squirm for awhile, taking an evident amount of pleasure from her desperation.

"You know… The more you fight, the more I'm going to enjoy myself." He grinned. Adria went still.

"Damn." He mumbled. At length, he removed his hand from her mouth, gazing down into the blackness. She had turned away in disgust. Again. He hated that.

Fighting the urge to bang her head against the cold concrete floor, he stood up instead, pulling her with him, and tight to his chest. If she didn't want to look at him, she didn't have to. But he had to occupy himself somehow. He held her wrists behind her in one hand, and held her head to his chest with the other, sloppily stroking her hair. He squeezed her wrists, waiting for the muffled whimper that he knew would follow. It was a satisfying feeling, knowing he could control the emotions of another human being. Make them feel whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He had mastered fear, this he knew. But could he master other feelings too?

Adria whimpered, breathing in the musty smell of the Joker's green silk vest. It was deceptively smooth and reassuring, counterbalancing the rage that was building in the chest behind it. She could feel it in the tension of his hands. His heart was thumping in his chest, and it inwardly surprised her that he had a heart at all.

"For future ref-er-ence…" He said patiently, voice rumbling through Adria's brain, "Whenever you look away from me, I will assume you are not, uh. Paying. Attention. And we can do this one of two ways. You can pay. Attention, or I can _Make you._"

Adria nodded mutely.

"Good girl." The hand that was heavily stroking her hair lightened, just slightly. And the other, which had been crushing her wrists, loosened a bit. He abruptly shoved her away from him.

"And P.S. Angelcakes… I can _see_ in the dark." He grinned. "Now eat, before I change my mind about feeding you."

Adria nodded.

"Say yes." He growled.

"Yes." She whimpered.

"Yes what, Muffin?" He giggled.

"Yes…sir?" She squeaked.

"_Say it like you mea-n it_."

"Yes, Sir." She said loudly.

"I'll decide if I believed that later." He sneered, before disappearing completely into the blackness.

Adria was left shaking with a sense of dread. How did he expect her to eat now? But, he was right… she would be sealing her own death warrant if she refused to eat for too long, and she had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't try too hard to force her to. After all, if she was a failed experiment, he could always find another girl to torture. So, with a resigned sigh, she returned to the bed and took to the meal, no matter how gingerly.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Author's Note: For those of you just joining us, Adria is pronounced "ADD-ree-ah" _**

**_Also, I own nothing (well, I do own Adria) and I never will._**

**_And I'd like to take a moment to thank my reviewers. You really do keep me motivated. So thank you._**

Everything about this girl perplexed him. But then, this was a fairly new and unique situation. He had never had a girl at his disposal before, not quite like this. And though he had run through a veritable hoard of Gotham City's underworld streetwalkers, he had never thought about women quite the way he thought now.

Even for a madman, after all, he was still a man, and there were still desires to be fulfilled, no matter how twisted. But years of blinding, burning, and otherwise torturing the unfortunate prostitutes of the Gotham streets had taught him one thing. He did not want a girl like him. He didn't want a girl that was twisted, mutilated, or otherwise… _damaged goods_. Even if he had willingly done the damage. It was far too off-putting. And besides, he imagined they would perform _so_ much better, if they had all of their faculties at their disposal.

But it was becoming increasingly maddening to him to watch people flinch when he entered a room. Because there was a palpable difference between being afraid of his _actions_, and being disgusted by his _appearance_. The former inspired pride to swell in his chest, the latter, only more rage. Rage was a useful feeling when he didn't care about the outcome of his victims. Oftentimes it aided his mind, the little voice that lingered in his brain, the one that came up with all the fun things he could do to kill, maim, or otherwise torture. But he had no intent of killing this particular girl. Not yet, anyway.

No, for the first time that the Joker could remember, he was utterly _conflicted_. He _needed_ satisfaction, and he needed it desperately. But it wasn't the kind of satisfaction he could obtain by hearing her use her last breath as a scream. He needed her, and he needed her to be willing…

It was an experiment of sorts, this…_game_ he was planning. He knew that fear was something he could inspire at the drop of a hat, but what about something else? What about _lust?_ His was burning at the thought of the beautiful girl locked in his dark little cage. This irritated him. She had such power over him this way, and it was disgusting. He wanted to gain his advantage back. He wanted to sweep in, take her, and then worry about the other, messy little accessories to having a woman in his presence. But he couldn't take her, couldn't satisfy that one simple desire, unless she came willingly.

…Came willingly… He grinned at his mind's own double entendre. What could he do? Short of costuming himself as the_ Bat_, and sweeping in to "save" her, he was completely out of usable ideas. And somehow, no matter how insistent the little voice in the back of his mind was that just taking her was a good idea, he couldn't believe that something that simple would actually work.

Adria, meanwhile, was spending much of her time curled up on the little bed, waiting anxiously for the hammer to fall. When was he going to come again? What would he do to her when he got there? She slept little, tortured by nightmares of that hellish, painted face, and preferred to listen to the silence. She discovered that the object that the little old woman had placed on her chair was the latest edition of _The Gotham Sun_, extolling Adria's absence. Her piece on Dent's memorial service was there as well, and she gripped the paper to her, savoring the words that her partner Stephen had written.

Stephen… She felt as though she had known him in a different lifetime already, though she had seen him a mere 48 hours before. He was her devoted best friend and foil, and she missed his humor terribly. Surely her jovial partner could come up with some joke to lighten the terrible gloom and terror here.

As she thought, she heard the mysterious door click from somewhere in the darkness. She hoped for the shuffling footfalls of the crazy old woman, but heard instead the click of the Joker's shoes.

"Good morning, Sunshine." He murmured, advancing. "But then, I expect you won't be seeing the sun for some time now…"

Her heart thundered with fear. The halo of light around her bed couldn't protect her, and she stood, facing the sound of his voice.

"I…wish you wouldn't, ah, do that, Angelface." He said stiffly, advancing toward her, head down. "It aggravates me, and, trust me, you, ah, don't want to aggravate me anymore than I am already."

"I want to go home…" It burst from her lips uselessly. The only thing she had to say. She could hear his sneer in his next breath.

"Home?" He cackled wheezily. "You _are_ home, Sweet-cheeks. What'sa matter? You miss someone? Got a… a boyfriend maybe? Whaddya missing, Sugarlips? I'll give ya anything you want." He advanced on her, and she realized too late that she had cornered herself. She made a leap to scramble over the bed, but he matched her, and soon had her wrestled into submission.

"Except you can't, ah, _leave_." He was dangerously close to her, yellowed teeth bared, lank hair falling in her face. He cocked an eyebrow suggestively, and she struggled harder.

"Now, now, Kidlet." He said authoritatively. "The old dog don't bite… hard."

"Get off!" She was more determined now, writhing and squirming.

"Fine." He huffed, standing up and brushing off his trousers, running a hand through his disgustingly dirty hair. He turned to walk off.

"Wait… is that it?" Adria asked suddenly. He didn't even break stride, heading into the darkness. "I said, is that it?" She was becoming desperate.

"Is _what_ it, Sweets?" He asked noncommittally, without turning or slowing down.

"You're just going to… leave?" Adria asked, incredulously.

"Yes." He said nastily, finally turning and stepping into the circle of light once more. "As much as it _pains_ me…" He cocked an eyebrow and paused. Adria followed the direction of his eyes and grew quite pink. Good, he had accomplished at least one goal…

"As much as it pains me, I think, ah, you might not be what I'm looking for. And I'm _sure_ you know what tha-t means."

Her eyes grew wide, and he smiled just slightly. It seemed the ball was solidly in his court, as it were.

"So… sorry, _Sweetheart_. It's not you, it's me… or something like that." He cackled. She had scrambled to the end of the bed, eyes like saucers.

"Please don't kill me…" She whispered. He turned his head, calculating carefully. "Please don't!" She scrambled off the bed and scurried toward him, pleading.

Finally… She clung to his lapels and peered up imploringly. He kept up the cool ignorance for a moment longer, determined not to let some little _tart_ control his desire. At length, he finally looked down at her, cocked an eyebrow, and peeled her off himself.

"We've finally got our, ah, _priorities_ in order now?" He asked. She nodded, not daring to look away.

"Good." He led her back to the little bed, and set her down, taking a moment to peel off his coat before joining her.

"Good, _obedient_ little girls get rewarded for doing things right." He hissed. "And you've been a _very_ good girl today. Shall we see how good you really are?"

She hesitated a moment, but his eyes grew darker at her apprehension, and she swiftly nodded in reply.

"Very good…" And the hunger that glinted in his eyes erupted into a ravenous flame. He kissed her possessively, one hand buried in the hair at the back of her neck, pulling at it painfully. He yanked her head back, biting her neck just once, to rid himself of what violent desire had escalated inside him, and as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Adria's head was spinning. His grip on her had suddenly transformed from painful and frightening to soft. The hand that had previously been twisting her hair within its grasp was now stroking it, still awkwardly, but with a softness that betrayed his usual rage. He bent to kiss her once more, and she felt herself paralyzed, unable to consent or to fight. This, too, lacked the possessive malice of the moment previous. She felt his face, the scars as they brushed past the corners of her own mouth, and though they were awkward, they weren't as disgustingly off-putting as they had been in her nightmares. In a dizzying sense, she felt the thrill of enjoyment, or at least relief, this way he would never kill her.

As he pulled away from her, she saw something glimmering in the depths of his dark eyes that was not malice, or hunger, or anything else she could identify. But as soon as she had seen it, it was gone, replaced by self-absorbed satisfaction. He rubbed at the edges of his now smeared face-paint, and his tongue flitted across his lips, obliterating the taste of her.

"I should, ah, leave you to contemplate which choice you would rather take. A swift death, or a lifetime with _me._" And he turned on his heel, having gotten exactly what he wanted, and left Adria, head spinning, in the light.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Author's Note: Many thanks for the absolute landslide of reviews yesterday. You have no idea how much it buoys me up to see them. _**

**_Still don't own (Not even Adria... Joker's claiming her) and regrettably never will._**

She had played right into his able hands. He positively giggled with delight as soon as he was out of earshot of the little minx. She would be putty in his hands, and he knew it. She could never ask to throw her own life away, that was the thing about humans. No matter how useless, stupid, and dull someone's life was, they wouldn't just… throw it away. It made them so delightfully easy to manipulate. His mind was racing, his blood humming with delight. He could have her for as long as he wanted her… and when he was tired of her? Well, then he could throw her away just as easily. She was beautiful, he couldn't deny that, and he would perhaps spend a moment feeling sorry for himself and what he was losing on the day when she no longer proved desirable… but that was all. She sang no particular siren-song to his heart. She would be useful as long as she was obedient, and as long as she let him have fun.

To say that Adria was confused would have been an understatement. She lay for a long time, face buried in her pillow, wondering just what the hell had happened, and why she hadn't just let him kill her. She didn't want to die, that was certain, but why had she opted for a life of unrelenting torture?

She supposed that it wasn't utterly hopeless, after all, he had had a very unusual look in his eye before he left. It was something foreign, even to him, and she knew it had puzzled him for the split second before he had obliterated it from his face. Gears were working in that mind of his, that perhaps even he didn't know of, and Adria knew that there might be hope for her yet.

But gears were working in her mind, too. Irrational thoughts kept bubbling to the surface. What _was_ that fluttering that had erupted in her chest when he kissed her? It had to be relief. The relief that her life was no longer in danger, her sentence commuted to life in prison with no possibility of parole.

"I suppose he's not _so_ disgusting…" she found herself murmur, before clapping a hand securely over her own mouth. Where had that come from?

"Yeah…" She scoffed as her own reply. "Maybe after about a thousand showers, and an introduction to mouthwash, and a good dye job, some plastic surgery, a haircut, and a new wardrobe." She shook her head. Something that she couldn't understand was working at her mind. He was twisting her to his own purpose. That had to be all.

"Stockholm syndrome." She muttered.

It wasn't long before the nutty little old lady shuffled in with the day's newspaper and a tray containing what was probably Adria's only meal for the day. It looked to be stale bread of the variety that bakeries usually toss out in the evening, those little packets of butter that sit in the dishes of cheapie diners, and an apple that had had a rather rough life before landing on her dinner tray. Perhaps she would have to petition for better rations. The little old lady had disappeared while Adria surveyed the meal with disdain, but in her place, The Joker now sat on the edge of her bed, legs crossed, twirling one foot impatiently.

"They're institutionals…" he drawled. "Not chefs."

"How did you..?" Adria jumped.

"Relax, Sweetpea, you're jumpier than a long tailed cat, uh, in a room full… a room full of rocking chairs." He rose. "I had to make sure she wasn't giving you any trouble. It's not easy being the, uh, _sane_ one in a room full of _crazies_… But you get used to it… or lose it yourself!" He giggled gleefully, and as quickly as he had come, he was gone. Adria tore off a piece of bread, absentmindedly. How did he _do_ that?

She quickly noticed that she was given no knife with which to spread her butter, but she supposed that made sense, so she scooped it out of the little packets instead. For coming from questionable sources, at least it still tasted edible. She began to realize how unendingly boring it was going to be here, in reality. After all, the Joker couldn't keep her on the edge of her seat 24 hours a day, whether from terror or… otherwise. And _The Gotham Sun_ could be perused and set aside in about an hour or so. Adria wondered if all this boredom had, in fact, factored into the Joker's plan.

So Adria took up origami. She had no guide, so she just sort of folded and crumpled until she got something with a shape… Or she felt like she was going insane by looking at the same damn sheet of paper and _hoping_ that it had a shape.

But the point was, being a captive wasn't nearly as thrilling as they portrayed it to be in the movies. Adria supposed it had something to do with the fact that the Joker wasn't going to kill her. Being somewhat unfamiliar with the practice of keeping a captive alive for a significant period of time, she began to wonder if it would be a learning experience for both of them.

But after a short period of time, this same complacency began to worry her. That was, perhaps exactly what he wanted! He wanted her to become complacent, so that he could strike without warning! She began to feel paranoid, peeking into the dark corners, flashing her camera without warning, peeking under her bed, and stealing around the room stealthily. She couldn't sleep. She didn't want to eat anymore. She wondered if he would ever come back, or if she would just linger in this room forever, until she expired from neglect.

"What the hell are you, ah, _doing?_" Oh sweet Jesus, he was back again.

"I thought you were going to leave me here forever!" Adria said, relief pouring from her.

"It's been five damn minutes…" He said, eyeing her suspiciously. "Whaddya, need a watch or something?"

"W-what?" Adria slumped back onto her bed.

"Uh, yeah." He nodded. "Five. Minutes. I know I said living with crazies could make you, ah, _lose it_, but I didn't mean that fast…"

"No… I'm… I'm fine now." She stammered. "I just… it seemed like… forever."

He looked her up and down for a moment, then took something out of his pocket and fiddled with it. The lights in the room came blaring to life, and Adria squinted and shaded her eyes. Then he swooped in, dangerously close.

"Listen, Muffin-cakes… I'm not gonna lie when I say it would just be easier to, hmm, ah, _off_ you… But…" he licked his lips, somewhat hungrily. "You're much too pretty to spoil. ...And I'd have to start this. whole. thing. over again. So I'll make you a deal. I find you a room with a view, you don't open the curtains 'til nightfall. If I see you trying to escape, you make fast friends with broken glass and pavement, understand? Say yes…" He grabbed for her head, but she was already nodding.

"Good girl." He seized her by the wrist and began dragging her off.

"Oh, but there's just one problem…"

"What's that?" Adria asked. He swiftly swept a dirty rag over her face, and she lost consciousness, slumping to the floor.

"You can't see where we're going." He giggled. "I think I just got me a, a boy-scout merit badge!" And he stuffed the chloroform-covered rag in an unseen pocket.

"Always come prepared!"

As he was contemplating dragging Adria along, it occurred to him that he would need to haul her lifeless body up several flights of stairs. Fortunately for him, abandoned hotels came fully furnished. Not so fortunately for him was the fact that using an abandoned hotel as a base-camp was treacherous. But Gotham had enough troubles, and he knew that this place was safe, and the last place on earth anyone would come looking for trouble. He contemplated whistling for a couple of his goons to carry his pretty little plum all the way up to the penthouse, but it occurred to him that he didn't want some… _crazy_…touching his toys. They might think it was fair to get some playtime for themselves… and the Joker didn't like that thought. Not one. Little. Bit. So, with a sigh, he lifted her himself, and began the trudge up the 42 flights of the former Gotham Edison Hotel.

He hated games that required so much unexpected work on his part.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Author's Note: Still don't own, never will_**

**_Continuing thanks to my reviewers! _**

The Joker found himself slumped in the stairwell on the sixteenth floor of the Gotham Edison Hotel, Adria still passed out and sleeping peacefully with her head in his lap. His chest was heaving, and he silently cursed himself for something as ridiculous as a little human weakness. He simultaneously cursed the _Bat-Man_ for having such nifty gadgets and toys, a few of which came to mind as being useful in this instance. He ran a hand through his filthy hair and heaved a sigh, finally catching his breath. His right leg was painfully sore from climbing sixteen flights of steps with a 115 pound girl slung over his shoulder, but his left leg was asleep, pinned beneath Adria's heavy, sleeping head.

He shoved her off, and let her roll limply across the dingy floor. This was the part he always hated about being the most intelligent criminal in Gotham. It usually meant he had to do _everything_ himself. I mean, sure, he could hire a couple of idiots off the street, hand them a clown mask and a semi-automatic and tell them to shoot any police that they see… But he couldn't trust them with the more, ah, _delicate_ aspects of his plans. And he certainly didn't want anyone putting their dirty hands on his things. Adria was a lovely little toy, something to come back to after the thrill of a good heist, or an epic battle with the _Bat_, like a rockstar to his permanent groupie. 24 hours a day, ready and willing and on the edge of her seat, anxious to please… He smiled at this thought, glancing at her limp body beside him.

The first time he had seen her was long before his so-called "arrest" when the SWAT teams tried to haul him down from the side of a high-rise. He had seen her before, snapping pictures at the ill-fated Gotham General Hospital. Acting as a little trooper, her idiot partner bustling from bus to bus of terrified patients, asking trivial questions and telling insensitive jokes. He watched as that stupid goon herded this pretty little girl with a camera onto a bus, and he watched them drive away.

It had been about then that it occurred to him that blind hookers were getting awfully tiring. Maybe it was because he had been traipsing through a hospital, full of the sick, the dying, the disgusting, ugly, weak portion of humanity. He was tired of weak women, they were _needy_. They needed him, once he had destroyed them. Needed his patronage, and the more they needed it, the less he felt inclined to give it to them. They clung, and cried, with blind eyes and scarred faces, pleading to be saved. One by one, he had finally killed them all, the only merciful act he could admit to performing. He couldn't stand the thought of these… creatures… out there in their own personal dark, searching for him.

But this girl… This girl was _inspiring_. She was beautiful, and she was independent, not the kind of silly little bitch to follow around her partner, but the kind to do what she wanted. And that kind of spunk was… well, it was _hot._ He wanted a girl like that. A girl who wouldn't just lie down and take it, but who might scratch, or bite. A girl who wasn't afraid to get her hands a little dirty. Because it was inspiring to him.

So… She was a photographer. He nabbed a few copies of _The Gotham Sun_, but her photographs were… businessy. It was a newspaper, full of newspaper photos. But the way the girl handled the camera, she had to have more work somewhere. So he scoped out the joint, found this helpless little old janitor, and dropped his assistant down the elevator shaft. The stupid old man was blinder than the _Bat_, and wouldn't notice a thing. Sure enough, the sensitive, paranoid artist took her private prints to work to destroy. After all, you can't trust your own garbage man, now can you?

He giggled with delight, rolling Adria's limp body over, so he could see her face. She was peaceful and quiet, innocent in her sleep. He couldn't wait for her to wake up. He wanted to make her squirm some more. The beautiful balance between twisting her to desire him, and still allowing her to fight that desire…

So he had nabbed these photos. Dirty little minx had surprised him. She took pictures of _herself_. And not only that, they were… suggestive…

He had to have her. A girl with an independent streak and a body that could melt steel was exactly what he was looking for. No more skinny, half-starved prostitutes. No more needy street-mutts that didn't even fight when you held them down. No, quite frankly, he wanted a good, solid kick in the balls, and he wanted this girl to give it to him. And what would happen afterward? Well, he would just have to beat her into submission, he supposed.

He snapped himself back to reality abruptly. He was enjoying this little fantasy _far_ too much, considering he was sitting in a filthy, asbestos filled stairwell. So he hoisted Adria up, slung her back over his shoulder like a bag of old potatoes, and began to trudge further up the yawing tunnel that would bring him to the palatial penthouse of the Gotham Edison Hotel.

Oh, and there was one more reason why he wasn't keen on his goons handling this delicate little flower… The only one allowed to bruise this peach was _him_.

With a final, heaving step, he had finally reached his destination. He dropped Adria's limp body unceremoniously on the bed, ignoring the plume of dust that rose from its surface. And then he collapsed, legs like jelly, into a chair nearby. She would likely sleep soundly for quite a while longer… he had chloroformed her a second time around floor 33, just to make sure she stayed asleep. His brow was prickling with sweat, an uncomfortable feeling, sweat mingling with caking face-paint. He furrowed his brow for a moment, feeling the half-dry mask crack and shift. Normally, this wouldn't bother him, but for once, he wasn't keeping himself too busy with something else to notice. So he rose again, tenuously, and approached the ornate gold mirror that hung across the room. He blew at the film of dust, but accomplished nothing, so he brushed it aside with his sleeve instead. White paint was accumulating along the lines of his face, leaving long fissures of exposed flesh… perhaps it was time to freshen up. He approached the bathroom, leaning on the delicate porcelain sink, attempting to spare his legs the agony of bearing his own weight any longer.

He gave the faucets an irritated jerk. For a moment, the pipes only rattled angrily. But soon, a flow of rust colored sludge came trickling from the tap. With another irritated twist of the faucets, he soon had clearer water flowing, draining the dust and cracked plaster of a monument left to die down the still pristine brass drain. He splashed his face a few times, letting a river of grayish water run down off his chin, taking with it most of the offending paint. He studied his face in the mirror for awhile, scarred cheeks twitching with slight disgust. Without his mask, he was just… _damaged goods_, as they say. But with it… With it he was a god of destruction. With it, he was The Joker, impervious to humanity, and their ridiculous weaknesses.

He gave one last look to the stranger in the mirror. That man had hollow, dark eyes, rimmed with a shadow that made them appear sunken, ill. He supposed he was just slowly staining his own skin with the pigments he wore, but the shadows were eerie all the same. He supposed he should be proud of that, it was a sign of obliterating forever the man that lived somewhere behind the grin. He had been beaten into submission a long time ago, and no longer even dared protest the _other_ little voice. The one that whispered all the good ideas. That voice was now irritatedly barking at him to fix his face. Couldn't dare to be seen without his persona… without his _trademark smile_.

As he twisted open the pot of white paint, something caught his eye. Movement, but when he blinked, there was nothing. He leaned toward the mirror, fingers poised to hide his humanity, when he saw it again.

And there, in the reflection of the mirror, he saw a groggy Adria, slumping against the door frame. The paint-pots clattered to the marble floor.

She watched him turn, head foggy. As she saw his face, clarity buzzed through her senses. Without his make up, he wasn't nearly as terrifying, though his eyes still betrayed the rage beneath. Before she could react, he had slapped her, hard across the face. Her cheek stung, a rough line of white paint trailed across it.

"Little girls shouldn't go _sneaking_ around all the time." He growled. "Little girls should be _heard_, and not _seen_-_ah_." And he grabbed her by the side of the head, and sent her crashing back down onto the bed. With a whirl of his coat, he had stalked back into the bathroom, and slammed the door.

Adria stared at the door, stunned. A few moments later, he re-emerged, face appropriately frightening, sadistic crimson grin trailing up cheeks that twitched with barely reined emotions. He licked his newly stained lips, ran his fingers through his tangled hair, and swooped close to his frightened charge.

"I don't know _wha-t_ possesses me to keep you around… But you need a little… _obedien-ce_ training."

"What did I do?" Adria asked incredulously. "I just woke up."

"Hmm, ah, What… what did you _do…_" he echoed, amused. "You, ah, you _play_ with my patience."

"But…" She made to protest, but he seized her jaw and squeezed, and she quickly fell silent.

"_Now-ah_…" He growled. "What do good little girls get?"

"…rewarded?" Adria asked. She wasn't sure if she could count his using her for his own pleasure as a reward, but she supposed that was what he meant.

"What was that, Sugarplum?" He asked, feigning ignorance.

"I said they get rewarded." She replied.

"And how do we reward good little girls?" He asked lightly.

"You tell me." Adria replied dryly. He responded by backhanding her across her other cheek.

"_Good_ little girls get to have _fun_." He hissed. "_Good _little girls get a little _playtime_. And what about _Bad_ little girls?"

"They get punished…" Adria sighed.

"That's. Right, ah, _Sweetheart_." He said mockingly. "And you want to be a _good_ little girl, don't you, Angelface? You want to be rewarded?" He shoved her up against the headboard of the bed. He hovered close to her, breathing in her smell, waiting for her to respond.

"You _do _want to be rewarded?" He asked. "Like this?"

He brushed past her lips, as though he was going to kiss her again. He dipped down, out of her reach, tickling over her collarbone with the very tip of his tongue. He hovered just beyond her reach, bobbing away when she leaned in for him.

"Please…" She found herself murmuring, head in a daze.

His eyes, narrowed and soft, grew wider, mocking and cold.

"No." He cackled. "Bad little girls get to _think_ about what they've, ah, done."

He stood up from the bed, releasing her from his grip. She scrambled to the edge of the bed, imploringly.

"Shake it off, Sweets." He growled. "You don't _get_ any tonight." And he turned on his heel and left her alone once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Author's Note: Still don't own, blah, blah, etc. _**

**_This will likely be the last update for several days, as I am going to visit friends in the City. But I will be back! _**

It was maddening, what he was doing to her, and Adria knew it. He was manipulating her, making up excuses to punish her, taunting her with an "incentive" that she knew very well wasn't an incentive at all. She wasn't sure if being used would be any better than being beaten, but she could see no way out of the situation. One way or the other, she was his captive, his victim, and she supposed that if she _had_ to be someone's victim, she would rather derive as much pleasure as she could from the situation… If you could call it pleasure, what he aimed to "reward" her with.

She wished desperately that someone could save her. Someone who had the strength and the guts to stand up to the Joker. She supposed they were at least looking for her… After all, the Joker was supposed to be in Arkham Asylum. If he had escaped, someone would have known about it, surely? Where was Stephen? He was always looking for the latest scoop, the first one on the scene, like a dog on a bone. She ached for her old partner, just to hear one more bad joke, and his jovial laughter in her ears. She would pore over her daily copy of _The Gotham Sun_, reading his articles over and over, just to try and hear his voice as he admonished her for being so behind.

She felt sorry for the other two photographers in her fleet. They had to be terribly overworked now. But they had gotten along all right without her before. The paper seemed to be trudging along without her, at least for the first 48 hours, and it would likely continue to do so until she was found.

She shook the dust from the pillows on her bed. This new environment was nothing less than opulent, but a few years of neglect had made the whole room sag with a sort of lonely sadness. The ornate plasterwork on the ceiling had begun to crack, and some of it had fallen, especially in the bathroom, where it was always more humid. The rich woodwork was covered with a layer of grime and dust, and the furniture was dulled from too much time in the same location, sun damage obvious on most of the pieces.

Despite her new surroundings, Adria didn't feel particularly inclined to explore. The penthouse would contain a few rooms besides this one, but she was oddly worn out for someone who had spent the day sleeping off the effects of chloroform. Her cheeks didn't sting anymore, but they still radiated warmth from where the Joker had struck her.

He was an animal. Nothing more. Whatever she had seen for that brief moment in the dark had been nothing but a trick of the light. He was nothing but a hungry animal, and he would come for her until he could no longer bend her to his will.

The mind games were exhausting, and she lay down, inwardly ashamed at herself for not just standing up and letting him kill her. She was soon fast asleep.

She awoke later with absolutely no concept of the time or the day. A weak light was streaming in through the curtained windows, but she couldn't quite tell if it was coming or going. She received her answer abruptly.

On the large vanity table across the room, a new copy of _The Gotham Sun_ lay beside a pile of rags and a can of chemical cleaner. There was a note beside all this, scrawled out in a hand that looked to lack much motor control.

"Be a good girl and use your time wisely." Was all it said. Beside all this was a tray containing breakfast… More stale bread with butter, another questionable apple, and a Danish that was missing it's jelly center. A piece of paper had been left in the empty hole, with a little grinning face drawn on it. Adria didn't touch this, and instead picked up the newspaper and the apple. Moments later, she had dropped the apple, and was staring at the front page of the paper.

"Gotham Mourns Fallen Photographer" The headline was large, mocking her. Below it was a picture of her, lying prone in the pile of cards that she had found herself in when she arrived.

"This photo, sent by an anonymous tipster, depicts the final known photograph of Ms. Adria Kane, presumed dead at the hands of a Joker copycat. The perpetrator, or perpetrators remain unknown." She mouthed along with the words. With hot tears pricking at her eyes, she dropped the paper too. No one would be coming for her after all. Her partner thought she was dead, and so did the rest of the city.

"Ain't that just the breaks?" The Joker had somehow slipped in unnoticed. "I mean… Here you are, all… bright eyed, like. A regular damsel in distress." He giggled excitedly. "And everyone thinks you're… at the bottom of the river!"

Before Adria knew what she was doing, she had slapped him, clear across the face. He stood, stunned, for a split second before his eyes darkened dangerously.

"A little fight in you… I like that." He ran one hand through his tangled nest of hair and then lunged at her.

"Keep in mind, uh, Sugar, that everyone already thinks you're _dead._ That means it's that, uh, much easier to make it _actually happen._"

"Do you have any idea what you've done to my friends? My family? My coworkers?" She screamed in return.

"Do you think I _care?_" He asked, shaking his head. "Look, Sweetpea, how do you expect me to enjoy the, hmm, ah, _spoils of war_, if I hafta keep looking over my shoulder to see who wants a piece of the pie?"

She squirmed away and slapped him again. This time he stood for a solid ten seconds, blinking at her, before taking a deep breath and straightening up.

"You know… you're really not, uh, helping your case any." He muttered. "There's nothing you can do… You can, uh, _fight_ all you want… But out there? You're still dead. And in here, I'm the only, uh, _God_ you can pray to for…hmm… salvation."

And he approached her, surprisingly calmly, took her by the shoulders and sat her down on the end of the bed. Then he turned to leave.

"Why don't you just kill me then?" Adria asked calmly. She watched him stop suddenly, bristling. She expected him to come back, lash out, react some way. But he just stood, facing the door.

"I haven't, ah, figured that out yet." He murmured, mostly to himself, and left, slamming the door behind him.

"Kill her… just kill her… kill the bitch!" That little voice in his head was prodding, provoking. And at this particular point in time, it seemed like a very attractive option. But there was another little voice, speaking somewhere in the vicinity immediately below his currently growling stomach that was resolutely saying "no."

After all, he _could_ just off the disobedient little tart. But then he was back to blinding hookers, or worse, starting this circus all over again. And he wasn't sure he'd have the kind of patience that he had for _this particular_ girl again. I mean, sure, he could find himself another pretty girl. There were plenty of pretty girls in Gotham. And he was certain he could find one with a little spunk. But there was something about _this particular _girl that made him want to continue playing with her, just awhile longer. Maybe it was because he was so determined to see her fall on her knees for him. He hadn't quite gotten close yet, but there were steps in the right direction.

He wanted to be able to snap his fingers and have her helpless. He wanted to be able to stand over his defiant, free spirited little filly and in a flash, have her become a devoted, helpless little kitten, begging for a good _stroking_.

But more than that, he just wanted the satisfaction of knowing that she was _his._ She _belonged_ to him. He wanted her to know, in her whole mind and her whole body that she belonged to him, and he would bend her as he wished.

So he silenced the voice in his head, an action that surprised both the little voice, and himself. He dug through his pockets and set down the three knives, set of keys, vegetable peeler, razor blade, exacto knife, two glass shards and the lid of a rusty tin can that he had been carrying. He didn't want to be tempted tonight. And, though he wasn't sure quite what was possessing him to go back, he knew it was time to teach her a little lesson on what being good and obedient really meant. And besides, he wasn't sure he could wait any longer. He wanted a taste of what she could do. And he wanted to take that little test drive _tonight_.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Author's Note: Thank you for your patience. I am now back from my trip, and should resume writing quickly. You may all climb down from the edges of your seats now. _**

When the Joker arrived in Adria's room, he found her fast asleep, her pillow sodden from crying.

"Whaddya, lazy? Half the time I see you, you're asleep." He said, giving her a little shove. She woke with a start and stared up at him.

"I mean… It's not like I didn't give you somethin' to _do_." He indicated the pile of rags on the dusty vanity table.

"I'm… really… not in the mood right now." Adria grumbled, and turned over to go back to sleep. She was really starting to get sick of his games.

"Aww, but Honey, Sweetpea, Angelface… I _am_."

"What?" Adria found herself sitting bolt upright, more than awake now.

"Well, Kitten… I've been thinking." He replied, folding his hands and doing his best to look serious and professional. In any other situation, it would have been comical, Adria thought, looking at his painted up face and his permanent grin contrasted with his serious expression and slightly frowning lips.

"I've been thinking and, ah, I think it's time that we lay out the _rules_, as it were. See, I've been going about things all _wrong_, Sugar. I've been giving you a grand idea of punishment, but no real _clue_ as to your potential, ah, rewards. And it appears that you don't seem to mind your punishments as much as I'd hoped…" He licked his lips.

"Kinky bitch…" He murmured to himself.

"What was that?" Adria asked, suspiciously.

"Nothing, Sweets." He grinned devilishly. "So… I thought maybe… maybe I could clue you in to _the grand prize_… What happens if you just, ah, relax a little and play my _game_."

"What are you going to do to me?" She asked, eyebrow raised.

"Me? _Do_ anything?" He looked offended. "Angelcakes, look at me. I'm a saint."

He turned out his pockets, looking innocent.

"What do I have to do?" She asked.

"You just have to remember how to be a _good_ little girl." He smiled. "Good little girls are _obedien-t_. They listen to their superiors. Good little girls know that _I know best_, and try to take that to heart. But most of all, _good_ little girls know exactly when the right time to _fight_ is."

"And when _is_ the right time to fight?" Adria asked.

"Too many questions, and you'll only get yourself in trouble." He admonished, snatching her by the jaw and shaking her head.

"Then how am I supposed to know?" Adria asked.

"Because, Muffin. I'll let you know." His eyes were engulfed in hungry flame. "Good little girls have the same, ah, _desires_ as bad little girls. But _good_ little girls want them _so_ much more. But they can't let anyone know how much they _desire_ bad things… _That_ is when _my_ good little girl fights." He had climbed on top of her at some point, though she was still safe within her cocoon of blankets.

"I wanna see how much you fight." He grinned. "Because you know I'll always win. And, ah, I expect you might enjoy the _thrill_ of my victory just as much as I will." He had seized her wrists and, before Adria knew what was happening, he had dragged her out of bed. And mysteriously disappeared.

Adria spun around, looking for him. What was that for? She had turned 360 and then some, and suddenly felt two arms wrap suffocatingly around her from behind. He had her by the waist, and one arm wrapped around her, petting at her exposed throat, pushing her head back against his shoulder. She whimpered for a moment, instinctively.

"Shush, shhh…" He growled, but it wasn't the terrifying growl of an enraged animal now. "No need to fear the things that you want."

He was mocking her, but not harshly, or with the cool indifference he usually used. He was nuzzling her, she felt his face at her temple, felt the jagged scars, shivered. He paused for a moment, grip tightening. She grew still. His hand lingered on her throat for a moment, just a warning, but he resumed a steady, slow stroking of her neck, and she relaxed.

It was control, but not the same, rough, obvious control that he seemed to love exerting over her. He was taunting her with it. It was true, she could fight all she wanted, but in the end she would have to give in. But at the same time, he was working a much more sadistic sort of magic. He was lulling her senses into a dull murmur, seducing her. She closed her eyes.

He was enjoying this thoroughly. His sweet little peach, just waiting to be picked. He hoped she would at least put up a good fight. He could feel her melting, forgetting her surroundings. He was feeling compassionate this evening. He would allow her a moment in her _fantasy_.

She was slipping away, eyes closed to the horror of reality, the fear and the fighting. She was dreaming, allowing herself to dream. Right now, at this moment, she could be with anyone. Anyone at all. She hadn't so much as had a date in months, and suddenly the attention was overwhelming.

He had had enough of this little fantasy of hers… She was putty in his hands, but it was time to wake up. He took one of her hands, drew it up, and kissed her fingertips. He waited for her audible sigh, then, grinning, nuzzled the palm of her hand, and felt it go rigid. Her whole body tensed. So much for _fantasy_.

She felt the roughened scars move across her fingertips and suddenly felt ill, confused. She was inwardly horrified by the reminder of where she was. But outwardly, she wasn't sure she wanted him to stop. After all, it had been _such_ a long time… This was crazy.

"Dreaming, Sweets?" He giggled. "So sorry to have, ah, _disturbed_ you." He let her wriggle away from him, though he kept a deathgrip on her wrist. He periodically reeled her in, like a fish, to tease her, before allowing her to attempt escape again. Finally, the little voice from somewhere immediately below his stomach grumbled that he should stop playing with her, and get down to business. So he swept her clear off her feet.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you." He ordered. She peeked up at him, feeling her heart sink further with the reminder of what was real. If he would only take off that damned face paint, it might not be so bad. She could concentrate on a pair of real, human looking eyes, and maybe, just maybe, forget.

But he didn't want her to forget. He wanted her to _burn_. Not for the weakness that his own human eyes represented in her lonely and battered mind. And not for the dream that she could dream when she closed her eyes. He wanted her to burn for _him_.

"Are you going to be a, hmmm, _good_ little girl?" He purred. She nodded swiftly, momentarily afraid that he would drop her, if only just to grab at her face and force her to agree.

"Good. And I didn't even hafta ask you twice." He smiled, flashing those disgusting, yellowed teeth. Adria swallowed hard, forcing down a wave of revulsion. He laid her down, leaning over her, pinning her arms above her head. "Are you afraid?"

She didn't answer. Truth was, she wasn't sure. Part of her was terrified, yes, but a small, infinitesimally tiny part of her was utterly calm. She wanted to say she was just accepting her fate, but that wasn't quite it. Because _consenting_ and _accepting one's fate_ are two totally different concepts.

"Guess not." He snorted, looking down at her. "Better for you then."

He pinned her wrists with one hand, and began unbuttoning her shirt with the other. She wriggled a bit, uselessly. She watched his eyes flash hungrily, inwardly wishing she could feel the same.

"Don't move." He ordered. She fell silent, and he let go of her wrists. What was he doing? He loosened his tie. She tried to slide away, just a little. "I said _don't move_."

She went dead still.

He removed his tie calmly, taking a moment to undo the Windsor knot that held it in a loop. Then he seized her by the wrists and dragged her further up the bed, tying her hands securely to one bedpost with the tie.

"Never know when I might need these." He said, grinning and flexing his fingers. He peeled off his gloves, revealing long, thin fingers smeared with old paint. Did the man ever _wash_?

He undressed her methodically and in silence. He wanted her to be utterly exposed for a moment, to revel in her weakness. He wanted to watch her rise above it.

He stood over her, grinning maddeningly. She was livid. She found herself tense, waiting. She had begun to wish he would just get it over with, but then, he couldn't possibly do that, now could he? No, he wanted to see her squirm, waiting for him. She began to wonder if he would even bother undressing, or if he was planning on making the quickest of quick getaways when he was finished.

"What's on your mind, Sugartits?"

"What are you waiting for?" She asked.

"Ah, ah, aah." He wagged a white-smeared finger in her face. "What did I say about _good_ little girls?"

"They never admit what they really want." Adria sighed.

"Good girl." He patted her cheek… and allowed his hand to wander a bit. Adria's face turned an appropriate shade of pink, and he stopped, taking a moment to remove his vest, slide his suspenders off his shoulders, and undo the buttons of his bizarre silk shirt.

Adria let out a badly hidden gasp when she saw his chest. As if the scars on his face weren't enough, he had several healed over gashes intersecting his chest, as if someone had tried to cut his heart out. He ignored her and continued.

By this time, Adria's body was screaming for attention. He watched her, could practically feel her aching for it to just be over with, and then joined her.

.

.

.

Adria woke up in the middle of the night, shivering. He had left her alone and exposed, hadn't even had the decency to cover her with a blanket before leaving. At least he had untied her… She rubbed her wrists, and then climbed out of bed. It was nighttime. She hadn't been awake after dark yet, and he told her she could open the curtains at night, take in the view.

The 42nd floor penthouse of the Gotham Edison Hotel was not the highest vantage point in all of Gotham City, but it was the highest point in this particular neighborhood. She opened her curtains and stood in the window, temporarily forgetting she was unclothed. Not like it mattered, no one would see her up here, in the dark. The moon shone in a sky she had already nearly forgotten, hazy clouds drifted by, obscuring the stars. The lights of the city twinkled all around her. She could see the darkened tenements in one direction, the luxury high-rise apartments in another. Lights beamed up from the theatre district, despite the late hour. Theatre people never seemed to sleep. She reached for her camera by instinct, but remembered that it had no memory card. Pity, as the view really was a priceless one.

Even in the middle of the night, her room held plenty of light. This had once been an airy structure, dozens of windows to be thrown open on the night. Now the windows remained tightly curtained, locking her within the walls, all alone with _him_.

He had surprised her with his gentleness. She supposed, after all, that it was because he wanted it to be a reward. If nothing else, it had been a relief. He had spent enough time building up the sexual tension before hand. She wasn't sure what to think of the night. He hadn't lingered long, at least she didn't think so. Her mind and body were so overwhelmed that she had fallen asleep nearly immediately after the fact.

She wasn't sure what would happen when she saw him again.

The Joker was awake, as usual. He assumed most people would call this insomnia, but he wasn't an _insomniac_, his mind just kept on moving. The coming of night always caused his senses to tingle, there were _Bats_ out at night. He was thinking, he wanted to have more fun.

The girl had been more receptive than he expected. Not like he would have given her a choice. But he hadn't had to put her in her place. And he was right, after all. Blind prostitutes _definitely_ left something to be desired. He wanted more. More of that sweet little _tart_. And he wanted it as soon as possible.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Author's Note: Sincerest apologies for my...extended absence. I don't know how much more of this story will ultimately be finished, but I have begun to work on it again, slowly. Which is more than I can say about anything else I've ever written. Ever. So... You get lucky. Now enjoy chapter 10, cause I don't know when more is coming._**

It continued on that way for some time. He came for her most evenings, leaving her confused and conflicted. Sometimes he was gentle with her, sometimes not so much. But she could never make herself say no.

She was playing right into his hand, and he could feel it. He was quite satisfied with his decision to keep her around, as it had been a valuable one. He didn't exactly have a _plan_ when it came to this girl, but he figured that one day, he would have enough of her. But as time went on, as days stretched into a week, and then two weeks, he was beginning to doubt this inevitability. Because he never _did_ seem to get quite enough of her. She had given in to him, allowed him to play with her however he liked, and yet he could never say he was totally sated. Every time he left, he felt the briefest of thrills, wanting the time to come when she would be waiting for him again.

Adria wasn't quite sure what was happening to her. She was growing less and less afraid of this madman. The times in which he was punishing her had grown less, and she wasn't sure if she had figured out his mysterious definitions of _good _and_ bad_, or if he was simply in a better mood lately. He sometimes allowed her to slip into the realm of her fantasy, but it was never long before he drew her back into reality. All the same, her fantasy world and the reality she lived in were beginning to meld in those times that he came for her, and she wasn't quite sure what was real anymore.

"Stockholm Syndrome." She told herself, more often now. But the more she said it, the less she was inclined to believe. It was true, she was confined to a world of nighttime panoramas and the persistent painted grin of a sociopath, but it wasn't as terrifying as she had expected it to be. There were moments when she could almost believe he enjoyed her companionship as much as he enjoyed her body.

But one day, after a few weeks had passed, he suddenly stopped coming. She was left with nothing but the brief companionship of the nutty little old lady, who continued to bring her breakfast and a newspaper. She had abruptly made the transition from living in the madhouse, to living utterly alone. The first day wasn't terribly alarming, he had gone 24 hours without seeing her once before. But he had come in the next night with the barely concealed wounds betraying some other night-time play. She hoped that the Batman wouldn't harm him too badly, and she hoped that the Joker would confess her whereabouts before they carted him off to prison. She didn't dare try to escape. If she had garnered any favor with her captor at all, it would be gone the instant she attempted to leave of her own free will.

But as one day became two, she began to worry. What if he was _dead_? She wasn't sure how she felt about that. If he was dead, she would read it in the paper, and would be free to go. But each day, as she scanned the headlines, she received no news. Had he been captured? It didn't say. Two days became a week. Adria finally turned to the pile of rags on her table, compulsively cleaning the entire penthouse in an effort to pass the time. It really was quite vast, and she was surprised that she was permitted to live there all on her own. She supposed he might have claimed this place for himself, but he had made no mention of that possibility.

Finally, after nearly a week and a half, she heard footsteps that could not belong to the little old woman, just outside her door. But they weren't the brisk click that the Joker's shoes usually produced, instead, a more halting step. Her heart began to bang with fear and anticipation. Had someone _else_ come for her?

The door opened with a soft click.

"Do you have, ah, _any_ idea how long it takes to walk up 42 flights of stairs with a, uh, _limp_?"

"What?" Adria asked. A strange relief was pouring over her. At least it wasn't someone _worse_.

"Seriously." He said with a frown, lifting his left foot and giving his ankle a little twirl.

"You fall down the stairs trying to get up here faster?" Adria asked dryly.

"Yunno, if you were anyone else, I'd give you a permanent, ah, _smile_ to match your sense of humor." He grumbled, limping lamely to the edge of her bed.

"I dunno." Adria said skeptically. "Something about the phrase 'Lame Duck' doesn't exactly strike fear into my heart right now."

He shoved her dismissively.

"You're not gonna try and _wrestle_ me into submission with that, are you?" She asked, nodding at his leg, which he was now hauling up onto her bed.

"Well, not _now_." He answered, not looking at her.

"Then it seems the tables have finally turned." She smiled.

"Go ahead and run." He mumbled. "S'not like I can catch you. But I do have decent _aim_." He pulled an old vegetable peeler out of his pocket and hurled it at the wall, where it stuck in the moulding with a thunk.

"I wasn't going to run away." She said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Just had to, ah, _clear_ that up."

They sat in awkward silence for awhile. Adria watched him sit there, decidedly more sedate than usual, rubbing his knee.

"_What_?" He asked, finally, glaring at her.

"So… What happened?"

"Well, little miss _nosy_, if you're so inclined to know, it's on page three." He flung the morning's copy of _The Gotham Sun_ at her. She caught it and thumbed through.

"Batman?" She asked. "How long were you in jail for?"

"About a week. Had to pop the ol' _key_ back into the _lock_." He gestured at his useless leg.

"Dislocated knee?" Adria asked.

"Jesus, you ask more questions than the _cops_." He gave her a pained look. "But I'm not about to fall down 42 flights of stairs just to get away from you, so _yes._"

More silence. Adria looked at her own feet for awhile. The Joker was occupying himself by staring at her chest. She smiled, despite herself, and unbuttoned her shirt.

"Satisfied?" She asked, after awhile.

"Well, if that's all I get, then I guess so…" He mumbled.

"So how'd it happen?" She asked.

"Jesus…"

"I worked for a newspaper, I want to know the whole story." She said.

He gave an agitated sigh, but she kept on looking at him. He hated it when she just… _stared_ like that. It made him slightly uncomfortable. He supposed it was his own fault. He _had_ tried to teach her to be unafraid of him.

"Fine." He grumbled, shifting rather slowly to stare back at her. "You want to know? It's not that exciting. It should happen more often than it does, with a toychest like the _Bat-man_ has."

But that was all he offered. Adria moved a little closer, turned his head back toward her chest.

"I'll… make it worth your while?" It came out as more of a question than she had intended.

"Hmm..." He thought it over. He needed to think it over?! Adria sighed, and pulled his face straight into her chest. It looked like a shower night tonight…

He sat up and glowered at her. Damn her. Damn her and those gorgeous…

"Yunno that grappling gun…_thing_… that he has?" He asked her, slowly. She nodded.

"Well, I decided it was time to… _fall back to the Alamo_, as it were. But I don't think _Bat-boy_ liked that idea very much."

"He shot you with a grappling gun?" She asked, alarmed.

"_At_ me… He… he shot _at _me." He imitated aiming a gun at her.

"…Oh." She said. "That wasn't nearly as interesting as I'd hoped."

"No. No _hanging_ off buildings, or being _dragged_ by a train." He said. "Now… what were you saying about 'worth my while'?"

"Won't that hurt?" She asked.

"Not enough to stop me." He responded, grinning. He lunged, wincing, and pushed her back.

"Wait…"

"Christ, what is it _now?_" He asked, nose to nose with her.

"Where did you get all those scars?"

"Didn't I tell you that already?" He rolled his eyes. "Well, so… I was visiting the Kremlin…"

"Not those scars." Adria said quickly. "The other ones."

He stopped, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

"The ones all over your chest." She offered, growing a little more meek.

"Do you know how hard it is to get a _girl_ when you look like this?" He asked. She looked at him skeptically.

"Guess not." He said. "_Freak_."

"_You're _calling _me_ a freak?" She asked, eyeing him. He shrugged.

"I'm… I'm not a… _freak_." He whispered. "Can I get on with my story, or are you gonna make me wait longer?"

"No, by all means." She said.

He was still on top of her, staring her right in the face.

"But can you… you know, get off me? It's kind of uncomfortable with you right in my face like that."

"No." He answered. "My leg hurts, and I don't feel like moving it again. Get over it."

She shifted uncomfortably, but didn't respond.

"So… Being the _class clown_ doesn't usually net you a whole lot of _playtime_." His lips twitched uncomfortably, and he licked them quickly. "But can you picture me at sixteen?"

She couldn't. But she didn't want to slow his story any further. He was crushing her chest, and it was already hard enough to breathe without him being right in her face. So she nodded.

"I don't believe you." He said. "But I admire your effort. So… I was _all alone_. Like a dog without a boner… bone…" He adopted an angelic expression.

Oh. That was what he meant. She should have guessed.

"Right. So… Being a sensitive little _delinquent_, I decided it might be better if I _deprived_ the world of by _divine_ presence. So I carved up my own chest. With _that_." He pointed to the vegetable peeler still stuck in the wall.

"Was that..?" Adria cocked her head to the side.

"The same one?" he asked. "Sure. If you believe that's where I got _these_." His scars twitched again.

"So you tried to commit suicide?" She asked. He closed his eyes, aggravated.

"Whaddya, need it clarified? Want me to _show you_?"

"No." She said quickly.

"'Course, the irony is, I was trying to get rid of my scars. And I ended up with more of them." He giggled, but didn't look at her.

"I'm… I'm kinda sorry I asked." Adria said.

"Don't be." He answered. "They ain't yours. Now… I believe you _owe_ me."


End file.
